


Double Fault

by bittenfeld



Category: I Spy, I Spy (1965)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just a beginning scene to an unfinished fic.  An American agent holding some Russian microfilm is killed and the microfilm stolen.   Another Palm Springs vacation cancelled, another beautiful girl involved.  Boy, Kelly and Scotty sure get the roughest assignments…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Fault

From the shower, Robinson’s yell interrupted his partner’s contemplation. “Hey, Scotty, throw me a towel, huh?”

With a groan, Alexander Scott rolled across the bed, and tossing the magazine onto the night-stand, pushed himself up and strolled into the bathroom. “What’d you say?”

“I said, throw me a towel, please. There’s a couple of dry ones on the shelf. Or call room service or something. You left nothing but a soggy mess in here, man.”

“Why didn’t you call room service before you got in the shower?” the black man suggested, stepping over to the linen shelf.

“Well, why do you feel the need to use up all the towels whenever you take a bath?” Robin­son countered. Abruptly the hiss of the water turned off, and a glistening head popped out through the half-open glass door, followed by a dripping arm. “Hey, you better get dressed, partner. The dining room opens in fifteen minutes, and I’m starving.”

“Mm,” Scott grinned, handing over two dry towels. “I’m havin’ filet mignon and white wine.”

“Filet mignon and white wine?” Kelly stepped out of the shower stall. “White wine does not go with filet mignon, man. Don’t you know nothin’ about table manners?”

“Nope. All I know is we’re on vacation, and I’m gonna sleep ‘til noon every day, and spend the rest of the time in the swimming pool, and eat filet mignon with white wine.”

The Californian chuckled. “Whatever. Everybody to his own taste, I suppose.”

“That’s right.”

Cinching a towel around his waist, Kelly eyed himself in the mirror over the basin, then set out his razor. “Well, y’know,” he commented, “we deserve this rest. We haven’t had a break in fif­teen months.”

“Fifteen months, one week, and four days,” Scott corrected, and the white man grinned.

“That’s what I said. Fifteen months, one week, and four days.”

Leaning back against the door jamb, Scott watched his partner shave. “Say, have you noticed that chick down the hall who’s been watching you ever since we got here?”

“Long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a figure to put Jayne Mansfield to shame?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah. Y’know, our assigned tables in the dining room just happen to be side by side?”

“No kidding.”

“Nope. A fifty to the head-waiter arranged everything.” Robinson caught the other man’s re­flec­tion in the mirror. “And have you seen the number right below us?”

“Uh huh. Her name is Louella Hale, she’s twenty-six years old, she’s a physics grad from MIT summa cum laude, and she likes swimming and filet mignon with white wine.”

“Well, well, now, isn’t that a coincidence? You, uh, found that out already, huh? We’ve only been here since noon.”

“Hey, they don’t call me ‘Super Spy’ for nothin’, man.”

“I guess not. Summa cum laude, huh?”

“Yeah.” A little conspiratorial smile twinkled in Scott’s eyes, “And she’s promised to show me her Phi Beta Kappa key tonight… in private… over a little nightcap…”

“All right.” Kelly grinned broadly. “Well, it sounds like you just found Miss Right. Congra­tulations to you both, and may you enjoy a long and wonderful life together.” He rinsed off his razor. “Y’know, whoever thought that two weeks was long enough for a vacation, uh, never came to Palm Springs.”

A knock on the door interrupted Robinson. “Oh, see who that is, would you, m’man? And if it’s the maid, ask her for some dry towels.” Running some clear water, he rinsed off the last foam from his cheeks.

“Uh, Kel,” Scott called from the front door, “it’s, uh, not the maid.”

Patting his face dry Robinson strolled out into the room. And pulled up short.

A middle-aged man carrying a large briefcase, entered the room. He was dressed in a conser­vative grey business suit, not at all appropriate for Palm Springs. With close-cropped reddish grey-flecked hair, Russ Conway looked like a lawyer or a financier or the president of some blue-chip cor­poration. But not nearly glamorous enough to be an agent-in-charge for American Intelligence.

Smiling tightly, he greeted, “ ‘Evening, Scott, Kelly.”

“Mr. Conway, sir,” Kelly returned dubiously. “Uh, what can we do for you, sir – short of giving up our well-earned vacation?”

“Sorry, Kelly,” the older man sympathized, not too convincingly, “but I’m afraid that’s exactly what you’re going to have to do.”

“Aw, c’mon, Russ, have a little heart. You already cancelled our vacation last March. Y’know, this is playing havoc with our love lives. Go screw up somebody else’s plans this time.”

But the uninvited guest just overrode Robinson’s protestations. “Well, your love lives are just going to have to wait a little longer.”

“Love lives? What love lives?” Scott muttered under his breath. “When have we ever had love lives?”

Conway ignored the griping. “Something came up this morning, and we need to get on it im­mediately.”

“Well,” Robinson sighed at his friend, “there goes your filet mignon with white wine.”

When Conway raised an eyebrow, Kelly explained, “Scotty’s number downstairs. An MIT grad with strange dietary preferences.”

“Where can I sign up for a love life?” the black man continued grumbling.

“Duty calls, gentlemen,” the older man announced with a tone of finality. “All extracurricular activities are put on hold until further notice.”

“Fifteen months, one week, and four days,” Kelly smirked to himself, and slinging the towel over his shoulder, disappeared into the bedroom.

“Uh, why us, sir?” Scott inquired, hiding his disappointment not too subtly. ‘Why can’t you call in another team?”

Conway appropriated the sofa to open his briefcase. “We have to move as quickly as possible on this, so the division office figured as long as you two were already in place, we wouldn’t waste any time calling in someone else.” And handling a couple of 8 x 10’s to the black man, he men­tioned, “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed this attractive lady hanging around the hotel?”

Glancing at the surveillance photos, Scott’s expression suddenly changed, and he called to the bedroom, “Hey, Kel, your girlfriend’s in pictures.”

“Huh?” Stuffing his shirt-tail into his trousers, Robinson reëntered the sitting room and glanced over his partner’s shoulder. A crooked smile pulled his lips as he studied the photographs. “Well, whadd’ya know. Her room’s just down the hall,” he added for their supervisor. “I was think­ing about introducing myself.”

“Well, that sounds like an excellent idea. Contact her. Make her acquaintance.”

“But you just said…”

“I said your pleasure’s going to have to wait. This is business.”

Kelly warmed up. “Well, why didn’t you say so before? For this kind of business, I’m willing to give up pleasure. Why is the Department interested in her? What has she done?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe carried out an assassination.”

“Who of?”

Conway’s gaze shifted between the two younger men, and he stuffed his hands into his pants’ pockets. “One of our agents from the western regional office was murdered some time yesterday. His body was found out in a dry wash this morning by a couple of hikers. Single-shot, hollow-point, to the back of the head.”

“KGB,” Robinson breathed with a grimace, as his short-lived warmth evaporated.

Russ took another couple of pictures from his briefcase, and handed them to Kelly. “Did you know Alfred Lynn?”

One shot was a Department ID of a fortyish man with cropped grey-blond hair; the other, an autopsy photo of the back of the skull, displaying the telltale image of a hollow-point slug. This close to dinner, Robinson felt grateful that Conway had left out the rest of the photos – the ones de­fining the damage to the front of the skull. He traded photos with his partner.

Scott nodded thoughtfully. “Alfred Lynn. He trained with Kelly and me for a couple of weeks.”

“Explosive ordnance school, summer of ’63,” Robinson recalled.

Scott eyed the red-haired man. “Was he on orders?”

Conway nodded. “Yes. He had gotten ahold of a roll of microfilm – photos of a Soviet mis­sile base in the Kamchatka Peninsula. He reported to his office yesterday morning that he was com­ing in, but before he could deliver the film, he was killed and the film stolen. Witnesses here in the hotel said that Lynn had been keeping company with this girl for the past few days.” Conway indica­ted the photos in Robinson’s hand. “Check her out, find out if she’s just an innocent bystander, or if she’s KGB. If she’s got the film, get it back; if she’s already sent it on, find out who her contacts are.”

Soberly Scott nodded. “Okay.” Then he frowned. “If she was the assassin, why is she still here? Wouldn’t she have disappeared right after the hit? Why hang around? And if Lynn was on assignment, why was he playing in the first place?”

The older man speared him with a squint. “Excellent questions, Mr. Scott. Find the ans­wers.”

“Was he that careless an agent?”

“Maybe she’s just that beautiful a girl,” Kelly suggested, gaze lingering on her black & white image.

“Maybe she’s that good a honey-trap,” Scott countered. “Maybe she didn’t actually didn’t do the hit. Maybe she just set him up – head ‘em up, move ‘em out?” He glanced sideways at his part­ner. “She sure singled you out the minute we walked into the lobby this afternoon. “

“So, she has a taste for handsome debonair tennis players,” Robinson quipped, but his face remained serious.

“Or a taste for American agents,” Scott retorted. “Lead one guy into a hit, then wait around, see who else shows up to investigate. Take out three with one set-up.”

Closing his briefcase, Conway started for the door. “Sorry to ruin your vacation, fellas. But Lynn was a good man. It’d be a shame for his last mission to be a failure. Find out who killed him.”

“Yes sir,” Robinson agreed with a slight nod. “Uh, we’ll get right on it.”

. . . . .

 _to be continued someday_ …


End file.
